


The General's Revenge

by AgentCoop



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers Feels, Collars, Ficlet, Gladiators, Graphic Description, Leashes, Master/Slave, Original Character(s), POV Steve Rogers, Slaves, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Violence, Whipping, bucky has a terrible father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 07:59:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: Steve just doesn't seem to understand his place as a slave to his new master.The General is more than happy to help him learn.





	The General's Revenge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mystrana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrana/gifts).



> Basically, an excuse to take a break from the giant epic gladiator fic I'm working on and write completely non-apologetic Steve whump including whipping and collars.
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr: [Agent Coop](http://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com)

“Kneel.”

Steve shuddered at the command, staring at the man in front of him, unwilling to obey. The General scowled. He wrapped his fingers tighter around the leash, pulling hard and the wretched collar bit further into Steve’s neck. He held on as long as he could, but finally his knees hit the cold stone floor.

“Your insolence is unbecoming. You do not speak, you do not move, you do not so much as swallow without a command from your betters. You are a slave. Dirt. Nothing more.”

Steve held his gaze, watching him with disgust plainly etched upon his face. He swallowed then--made a show of it, feeling his tongue press against the sides of his mouth. Then spoke. “I am no slave.”

“Father,” Bucky stepped forward, moving to place his hand upon the general’s outstretched arm, but his father stiffened and Bucky backed away again, looking down.

_Coward_ , Steve thought, though the judgement felt heavy in his chest.

“I think you do not understand where you are, boy.” The general addressed Steve again, hatred gleaming in his eyes. “I hope this lesson will help make things clear.” He turned then, and spoke quietly to two soldiers standing to his right. “Bring him to the post.”

They approached Steve, and he fought, kicking and biting and yelling, but the damnable leash guided his head and he had no lead. They dragged him up to the far side of the room, to a crucifix that was mounted in the dirt, and lashed his arms to each side of the tee. He felt naked and exposed--his arms were stretched to either side of his body and despite his pulling, there was no give in the leather lashings. He steadied then, trying to calm the quiver of breath that betrayed his nerves.

The general walked behind the post--in full view of Steve--and he was dragging Bucky along with him. Bucky looked limp, looked exhausted, looked like he’d given up all hope.

“You have seen fit to weave your clever stories, work your shaman magics upon my son. He’s quite enamored of you, you realize.” He emphasized his point by pushing Bucky up to the post. They met there--Steve tied to one side and Bucky standing, barely holding his weight on the other. It was close enough for Steve to feel Bucky’s fluttering breaths on his cheek. Bucky watched him, looking for something, and Steve whispered the words--willing them across the inches. “Don’t watch.”

A tear fell then, down Bucky’s cheek, and the general dragged him back, his hand firmly around his son’s neck. “Thirty lashes. Strip the flesh from his bones and make them count.”

Steve closed his eyes then, barely breathing, holding his body stiff.

Nothing could prepare him for the first strip of fire that fell across his back at an angle. He seized, scraping his forehead against the post, but he didn’t cry out. He refused to cry out.

The second fell, and then the third, and he could already feel the blood start to drip. Bucky jerked forward then, trying to reach him, but his father held him back.

“Don’t,” Steve whispered, and Bucky dropped to his knees.

“Father, please. Stop this. He didn’t know, he didn’t do anything, he didn’t know…”

The General backhanded his son across the face as the fourth lash fell and Steve finally screamed--an aching, hollow thing that tore it’s way from his throat. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Bucky crying. He could hear sobbing and pleading, but it rang hollow in his ears and the lashes continued.

He sagged against the post and all time seemed to congeal--a tormented frozen hellscape of pain. His shoulders burned, and he turned his head desperate to relieve some pressure. The next lash licked around his ribcage and up to his cheek--he felt the skin split, and tasted blood on his tongue.

Steve begged then, pleading forgiveness and promising anything to make it stop. He was weak, he knew this, he was weak and it was an unforgivable sin. His back felt open and cold, so cold, and time faded.

***

When he came too, he was still strung to the post. His arms and shoulders ached, and his wrists were bloody from where he had pulled in vain at the leather bonds. He could feel the thick collar about his throat, but it seemed insignificant now. Everything had changed.

Everything was different.

His body was no longer his own. Something critical had broken and he was no longer in control of his fate. Each breath brought more flame, down the open wounds of his back. He tried to relieve some of the weight from his wrists by shifting upwards, but the pain was too much--he swallowed agony.

Somewhere he could hear a shuffle of sound. Steve tensed then, waiting. Perhaps there was more. Perhaps it was unfinished. He realized then that his eyes were squeezed closed and he was afraid. A tremor shook him, and it took every last bit of strength he had to force his eyes open and look. He would not give in like this.

_Bucky._ The lone figure on the ground looked up and Steve realized he had spoken--had forced the word from his bloody lips. Bucky shuffled towards him--his face red and his eye swollen from his father’s fist.

“I’m so sorry–”

“Don’t.” Steve cut him off. “Don’t.”

Bucky reached up slowly, and danced his fingers delicately along the inside of Steve’s wrist. It was such a tender thing, that touch, and Steve wanted to cry at the gentleness.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky repeated, and Steve bent his head, closed his eyes again as another wave of dizziness threatened to take him back under.

“It doesn’t matter.” Steve swallowed then, forcing the liquid down his aching throat. “I am only a slave.”


End file.
